Chapter 29
The mood lifts when the food arrives. They’ve had a decade to deal with this, Lucy reminds herself as she finds herself judging Edgar for the alacrity with which he’s throwing food into his mouth, trauma apparently forgotten.
Victor eats less, she notices, but he’s still chatty.
The conversation moves on to his work, what he’s been doing since his return to Bolivia, his subsequent move to the US, the difficulties he faces in getting either country to reconsider the punitive nature of their penal systems.
She’s more shaken than either of them, the weight of the revelations lying heavy on her. She’s trying to make sense of what the men were discussing, what new information Victor thinks might change Edgar’s mind. She doesn’t dare ask for it herself.
Despite all the wine, she feels totally sober.
She can’t be, though. Edgar has drunk the lion’s share of it, but still, they’ve got through the second bottle, nearly finished a third.
She’s relieved when Edgar says no to an aperitif, orders coffees instead and asks for the bill.
It’s still early, not yet nine, but she’s exhausted.
Victor pulls out his wallet to pay, but Edgar waves it away.
‘This is on me,’ he says. ‘Now look, you can’t go vanishing without telling me where you’re going. I’m not losing touch with you again.’
‘I’m going back to Oxford tonight. I need to get back for something,’ Victor says. ‘I’m staying for a few more days, but I really wanted to see you. I went round to your house earlier but obviously you weren’t there – I only came here because I saw you were on the programme for this conference.’
‘What’s so urgent?’ Edgar says, though there’s a resigned note to his question.
‘You know what’s so urgent,’ Victor says. ‘I want you to look at this. Please.’ He reaches down into the bag by his feet and pulls out an A4-sized brown envelope containing something small and rectangular.
‘Is that . . .?’
‘The notebook. Yes.’
Victor holds it out to Edgar. After a moment, he takes it, holding it by its edges, as if he were handling a snake.
‘Promise me you’ll read it, at least. And you’ll think about it. That’s all I’m asking.’
Edgar nods. ‘You’re trusting me a lot with this. What if I decided to destroy it?’
Victor laughs, a short, dry cough that twists his mouth. ‘You could destroy it if you wanted to. But we both know what it says. I think if you actually look at it, though, if you see the anger . . . It’s disturbing stuff, Edgar. The parole board needs to see it. She can’t be set free.’
Edgar nods again.
‘I’m due back at yours on Monday evening. She invited me for dinner.’ Victor’s eyes slide away from Lucy as he says she. Are Lucy’s intentions that obvious? She lowers her head.
‘You’ll come?’ Edgar asks.
‘Of course I’ll come. Maybe we can talk about it all, if you have a chance to look at it before then.’ Victor gestures towards the envelope, which Edgar has left on the table beside him.
Talk about what? Look at what? Lucy is bursting with questions, but she bites her tongue.
‘I’m happy to show you how you’ve misinterpreted it.’
‘Or you could accept you’re wrong – and do something about it,’ Victor says, his voice surprisingly gentle considering the aggression there’s been between them during the evening. The men stare at each other for a moment, a muscle twitching at Edgar’s jaw.
‘I’m not wrong,’ he says. Silence for a beat, two.
‘I’ll send it to the parole board myself, Edgar. You know I’ll do it. But I’d rather we worked together on this.’
Edgar shakes his head, his lips compressed. A moment later he says, ‘Anyway. Won’t you stay tonight?’ A lighter tone, an effort to get himself under control after all the outbursts of emotion.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I need to get back. I borrowed a car and I need to return it.’
Edgar looks at Lucy. ‘How about you? You could get a lift with Victor if you want? Or there’s a hotel room available for you. I spoke to the conference organisers about it, told them you were my researcher. Do you need to get back for anything?’
Time stops, a breach. A primrose path to hell to her left, Edgar smiling up at her; a steep and thorny path to heaven to her right in a rented car with a man she’s only just met. She should leave. Even if a long drive in a borrowed car with someone she’s only just met is hardly tempting.
And there’s the wife. Edgar’s wife. Lucy’s never even met her. They’re not friends. Lucy owes her nothing. But at the same time, she should do the honest thing, the more sisterly thing. Anything else will come back to bite her.
On the other hand, from what little Edgar has said, it doesn’t seem their relationship is in great shape.
He hardly spends any time at home, is always working or at conferences.
His wife doesn’t sound as if she has much in common with him.
Lucy would be doing them both a favour, hastening the end of something that should have been put out of its misery long ago.
Oh, who’s she trying to kid? The only person she’ll be helping is herself, to someone else’s husband. But dear God, she wants him.
Victor looks at her as if to say he can’t help her, she’s on her own with this. Edgar has one eyebrow raised, his good looks fully returned by now, a saturnine twist to his mouth. She knows what she should do; she knows she’s not going to do it.
‘I’ll stay,’ she says. ‘I left my coat in your car.’
Victor is kind enough not to smirk at the paucity of her excuse. He squeezes her shoulder in farewell as if to tell her to be careful, although she knows she’s most likely projecting thoughts into his mind. He and Edgar embrace, less of a death grip this time.
‘I’m going to come and see you on Monday,’ Victor says.
There’s an emphasis on the last word, though Lucy might be imagining it.
She feels very young all of a sudden; there’s a distinct sense of pas devant les enfants lurking there.
‘We’ll discuss it then.’ He nods at Lucy, smiling at her before he turns and leaves, taking some of the warmth of the room with him.
Edgar sinks back down into his chair. ‘Sorry, that was a lot,’ he says.
‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘I understand. I mean, my mum . . .’
‘Yeah. We both know what it means to lose someone so suddenly . . .’ He stops for a moment, clears his throat. ‘I’ve got much better at keeping it all under control. But seeing Victor . . .’
‘He seems like a lovely man,’ Lucy says, and Edgar nods in agreement.
‘The best. It was hard for him, too. I think for both of us. Seeing each other brings back a lot of bad memories.’
Death, deportation. A murdered wife, a mother hanging by a ligature from the end of a bunk in a prison cell.
‘Are you all right?’ Edgar says, leaning forward and putting his hand on hers. ‘You look very pale.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What a waste,’ he says. ‘But time moves on. We adapt. Look at you. If you keep going like you are, you could really be someone. Make a difference.’
She looks at him, her eyes bright with tears.
‘I remarried,’ Edgar says, ‘I’ve made a new life for myself.’
Lucy looks at him. His expression is blank despite the positivity in his words. ‘Is it one that you’re happy with?’ she asks.
He takes a deep breath, straightens his shoulders. ‘Can I be totally honest with you?’
She nods.
‘I’ve told you so much already, I may as well tell you this, too.’ Another deep breath. ‘No, I’m not happy. Not like I used to be . . .’
He stares into space. Struck by sudden decision, Lucy doesn’t wait for him to finish the sentence.
If she could make a difference, then what could they achieve together?
She leans forward, puts a finger to his lips to hush him, then moves closer still, taking his face in her hands and pulling him in to kiss him, any thought of those around them completely out of her mind.
He kisses her back, but only for a moment before pulling his head away. She blanches, drenched in shame.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I thought . . .’
Leaning forward, he takes her hand in his. ‘Not here. Not like this.’
She’s still frozen. However kindly he’s putting it, it’s a rejection. She tries to pull her hand away. His grip tightens.
‘Let’s go to the hotel. Have some privacy. We don’t need an audience for this.’
Without waiting for her reply, he signals to the waiter, pays the bill with a tap of his phone. Then he pulls her to her feet and leads her out behind him.
Maybe it’s the darkness, the full moon shining bright above, but Edgar gives up on any idea of caution the moment they leave the restaurant.
He kisses her in the street, in the lobby, halfway up the stairs to his room.
Forget any audience, she’s half naked by the time he opens the door to his room, her top somewhere round her waist. Only a few steps to the bed and then she’s under him, the weight of him hard on top of her, all thinking stopped, only a mass of sensations flowing through her mind.
It’s only when Edgar’s phone buzzes with a message that the spell is broken.
He gets up, rummages among the discarded clothes on the floor before sitting back down with it.
Lucy’s hit by reality again, a cold wave slapping her in the face.
It’s his wife, she must have guessed, worked out what Edgar’s doing.
Given him an ultimatum. Faceless, wordless, the wronged woman is in the room with them.
Edgar sighs, slams his phone down on the bed. ‘Now, where were we?’ he says. Lucy raises her face to his.
The phone buzzes again.
‘Fuck. I told her I was working tonight.’
He’s not talking to Lucy. He’s talking to the ceiling above him, his eyes cast upwards impatiently.
‘Everything all right?’
‘It’s fine. Just my wife.’
‘Shouldn’t you talk to her?’
‘She knows I’m away. It’s fine.’
Lucy stays silent. The curtain’s been pulled back a little, light harsh on the cracks in the veneer.
‘I will explain another time,’ Edgar says. ‘But I don’t want to spoil this. Let’s focus on us.’
Despite herself, there’s nothing Lucy would like more. She’s about to kiss him again when the phone buzzes for the third time. Edgar sighs again, looks at his phone. Slams it down even harder than before.
‘I’m turning it off now,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’
‘Your wife again?’
‘No, Victor.’
‘What does he want?’
‘That envelope he gave me. He’s asking me to look at it right now. I’m sorry, but I have better things to do. It can wait till the morning.’
With that, he turns to Lucy, his gaze intense.
The phone does not buzz again.